I groggily awoke in the small
basement of the Gay Street House in Portsmouth, Ohio. What was I doing
there? And where had I
been sleeping?  there was no bed down there. An ironing
board? I had been sleeping on an ironing board? Apparently so.

Jaggedly I began to
retrace – I had returned to Portsmouth to work for my father. He owned and ran several businesses, and I was
going to work as a salesman in one. Probably I would be
working in his cellulose insulation business; not only would I
sell insulation for houses, I would also install the insulation.
I would work when I wanted, and I would be paid a commission for my
sales; thus my father wouldn't have to pay me unless I sold
something. The arrangement should work out well for both;
he wouldn't have any out-of-pocket expense, and I wouldn't feel
pressured. Besides, I had enough money so I didn't even have to
work; I could just live on my savings.

I made my way upstairs. A bit
of a carnival atmosphere up there. The entire first floor had been
converted into offices. People scurrying. I ended up in a room
with perhaps ten other fellows (mostly in their 20s);
apparently all also worked for my father. They were
dressed casually but not sloppily. Apparently they were also
salesmen, probably working for commissions. They exuded talent
 but were singularly unimpressive. A slothful lot who
had nowhere else to go.

I continued on to the small
room on the Gay Street side. Two other fellows were in the room.
Perhaps this was the room where I would be working. One fellow (probably in his early 30s) pulled out a
brass saxophone with silver keys and began playing. Was this my
father's old saxophone? The sound was squeaky and
amateurish, but at least the fellow was trying. Maybe I could
bring in my flute and we could play together. I could even imagine
having the flute in my hand. How did my mouth fit on the flute?
Like a saxophone? I couldn't quite remember. I never played with
anyone anymore. Doing so would be difficult, at best. But
maybe

I walked back through the House
into the back middle room. A fellow whom I recognized crossed my
path  my old classmate from high school, Phil Waddell! What was he doing here? He looked about 30
years old; his hair was still bright blond. He was smoking a
cigarette little more than the butt. We grinned at each
other and began talking. He also worked for my father. Grand.
Maybe he and I could associate outside of the office. I used to
like Waddell, although we had never been friends. I had heard he had become involved in drugs after high school. As we
talked, the subject of drugs surfaced, and he soon told me he
had a drug called "rumba" which he could sell me. I had
never heard of rumba. He said it was a leafy substance which was
smoked like marijuana. I asked him how much it cost and he said
$70. I thought I would like to try some, but $70 seemed like
too much money to me. I just happened to stick my right hand in
my pants pocket and I pulled out a handful of green leafy
substance. I immediately recalled that I had worn these pants
once before and that I had stuck some marijuana in the pocket. I wouldn't need to buy any rumba – I already had some marijuana.
Nevertheless, I wanted to see more of Waddell and I asked him if he
would like to meet later that night. He said he would and after we agreed to
rendezvous back there at the House at 9:00 p.m., he departed. Yes, I
would like to see Waddell later; we would have a night on the town.

I walked back toward the Gay
Street side of the House and entered a room where a meeting was
about to begin. My father was sitting behind a brown wooden desk
while approximately ten men sat around the room and looked in his
direction. I headed toward a seat next to my father, but then
I realized the seat had already been taken, so I sat in an easy
chair in the corner about three meters from my father. The chair
squeaked when I sat down.

My father seemed in his
element. He was lying -- more than sitting -- in his chair. His obese
stomach protruded into the air. He seemed in charge, but
disengaged at the same time. It was as if he had built up this
way of life, but he was unconnected. He liked having all these
people around him, but he didn't relate to them. He was simply
the man in charge; he gave orders, and others obeyed. He didn't
try to understand his employees, and they didn't try to
understand him. Nevertheless, although the personal relationships
were hollow, my father's command was impressive, and I
felt special because I was his son.

How much longer would he
continue to operate a business? He was already 70 years old.
He couldn't last much longer; but working seemed to give some
meaning to his life. I wished he would live longer. I wished I
could do something for him. If anything, I wished I could help
him lose weight. Losing weight would be the best thing he
could do.

The meeting began and a man
sitting with his back to the wall began talking. Behind the man,
pinned to the wall, hung a piece of paper with the Target
department store logo on it  several red concentric
circles. I thought the man had probably sold something to Target
and the paper was evidence of the sale. The man recited several
verses, then was silent. Then a second man spoke up, and he also
recited some verses. My father looked over at me and said the men
were reciting Bible verses. Probably part of some motivational
technique which my father was using.

Where was my step-mother, Lucille? I could imagine her being
there, playing the
role of the queen. Everyone would defer to her, since she was
married to my father; but she was nowhere to be seen.

My father finally announced
he was going to introduce the group to someone whom they didn't know. I immediately thought he was going to introduce me. He
would probably even write my name on a blackboard behind him and
write that I was a lawyer. He had always liked telling people
that his son was a lawyer. Instead, he introduced the person
sitting next to him. One by one the other people in the
room walked up and shook the person's hand, and one by one
they left the room without saying anything to me.

The last fellow to walk up,
however, turned to me and asked who I was. I told him that my last
name was "Collier" and that I was my father's son.
He seemed impressed and he asked me if my father wanted me to be
with him (my father). I confidently told him my father had always wanted
me to be with him. The fellow reached out his hand; I took the
hand and we shook. As I tried to disengage our hands,
however, the fellow continued to hold on; soon it was painfully clear the fellow was trying to stealthily pull a ring off my little
finger; a small silver ring with a red gemstone. He was almost
successful, but I managed to pull away my hand in time. He turned and walked out.

I was dazed. Why would my
father employ someone who would try to steal a ring off my
finger? I wanted to talk with my father about these people. How
would I describe my opinion of them? The word "losers"
immediately came to mind, but I couldn't say that to my father -- he would be offended.

I turned to look for my father,
but he was nowhere to be seen. Instead, several women (who also apparently
worked for my father) had entered
the room. I turned to
two of them and began telling them about the fellow's
trying to steal my ring. They weren't surprised; they said he
often did that.

One woman caught my eye.
She was black-haired and quite pretty, yet slightly plump 
a Monica Lewinsky type. I thought I might get to know her later. But,
having any contact with her would be unlikely  I was still
married to Carolina.

As the women departed from the
room, I began wondering how I looked. I needed to look in one of
the big mirrors which hung over the many mantels in the House. I
could already imagine what I would see: I would be about 30
years old and my hair would be quite short. I walked into the
next room, looking for a mirror.